Pain of Stalingrad
by FoxInBox aka FIB
Summary: God help them both, so perhaps this anguish could, one day, end...


It hurt.

God it _hurt. _

He was watching as the trains arrived, the young men and women inside crowded together and herded like cattle. His children. How _dare _they treat _his _children like this!

The shock and terror they felt as they saw the burning city and heard the cries (and the cries and the cries and the cries…) of civilians and the sound of enemy fighter planes roaring overhead. The Germans dropped bombs, and the deaths of his children prickled over his skin like tiny daggers.

They were forced into the boats, trembling like frightened animals. The Red Army's flag flew boldly overhead, like a beacon. Russia slipped onto a boat, violet eyes bright and alert, yet strangely empty as he watched the soldiers cower and try to protect their fragile human bodies from the machine guns and bombs the Germans showered them with. He didn't wince as a bullet embedded itself into his shoulder; he could barely even feel it over the terrible pain of everything else.

God help them. God help _him._

He felt numbed surprise when he finally noticed the bright red blossoming across his white coat. Carefully, he pulled his scarf out of the way, then turned back to the sights. His eyes narrowed when he saw his should-be-brave children jump overboard in an attempt to swim to shore and back to 'safety', away from the targeted ships. Those same eyes widened, glinting with rage, as the commanding officers pulled out their pistols and open fired on their own men- _his _men.

Russia stood, towering over most of the other men. He stalked forward, not bothering to step over the bodies of the dead. They couldn't feel his heavy boots, anyways. He was standing by the officer, smiling in a disturbingly childish way, eyes as icy as the Siberian's frozen soil. A lead pipe was clutched in his fist, and he brought it up. The man cried out in pain, dropping the pistol and clutching a mangled appendage to his chest. He stared up at Russia, eyes widening as a vague feeling of recognition washed over him. Violet eyes stared back, and the human recoiled. No others dared move to help him.

The country opened his mouth, eyes sliding to the bloodied pipe, and said in a deceitfully cheerful voice "You won't be doing that again, da?"

At his child's panicked nod, Russia copied the movement, content with the answer, and moved back over to his previous position. He settled down, not moving as another bomb exploded nearby, showering him and the rest of the boat with bloodied water. He frowned when he realized they had gotten it onto his scarf.

X~X~X

When they finally reached the other shore, Russia stepped aside to allow his children to surge forward. They lined up, moving in a chaotic mass to get ahold of weapons and ammunition. A deep frown pulled at Russia's childish face as he realized there were not nearly enough weapons to go around.

"When the man in front of you is killed, take his gun and continue forward!" yelled the commanders to the crowds of children, over and over and over again. Their voices echoed through Russia's mind. He brought up one gloved hand to pull at his own silvery hair, eyes screwing up as he tried to dispel the echoing words and screams. Finally, he stumbled away, drawing closer towards the burning city of Stalingrad.

God, why did it hurt so much?

As he neared the fire consumed buildings, Russia lowered his hand. It was quieter here, and the absence of dying children let the constant pain become a sensation in the background. A small smile slithered across his face as the nation basked in the delicious warmth of the flames. He didn't allow himself to think about the humans who might have taken residence in the burning buildings, or of the still bodies of children that rested inside the dancing flames. He ignored the scent of gunpowder, and of coppery blood, and of burning flesh. He'd seen it all before, heard all the horrors, smelt the fear and the death. It never changed.

For all he truly knew, perhaps it never was.

This was normal, and the ice hot clamp on his heart hardly even bothered him anymore.

But right now, the battle was drawing slowly closer to him, and it was becoming harder to ignore.

God…Allies…comrades…please.

Please…IT HURT!

A gunshot snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked down. Russia's mouth tightened at the blood that splattered across his precious scarf. They had stained it; the thing most important to him-the only real proof that someone had ever cared about him. Carefully, reverently, he unwound the cloth. The freezing air hit his thin, scarred neck as he held his scarf. After a second he gently folded it and placed it into his pocket, where he prayed it would stay safe.

If he was lucky, after the fighting stopped…. No, it never stopped. Fine then, when it wasn't as serious, he would return home for a short time and have Latvia or Lithuania work on removing the terrible stains.

When another round of bullets embedded themselves in the ground dangerously close to his booted foot, he realized that he was standing in the middle of the battlefield.

'_Odd.' _He thought idly, a lopsided smile on his lips. _'I hadn't even noticed.' _

A steel pipe was clutched in his left hand now, and so he brought it down on the next creature that dared to wander too close to him. Russia breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he found that the man wasn't one of his children.

He continued like that until he was surrounded by the bodies of the other Nations' children. Non-Russian blood pooled by his feet, dirtying his mud and snow covered boots. He spat at it, and stepped over the bodies of crumpled enemy-babies.

"_All's fair in war." _A familiar voice whispered to him as a freezing gust of wind blew past the nation, and he nodded as he surveyed the carnage that was slowly becoming covered by pure snow. His own children and the enemy's children rested together on the frozen ground. Their eyes were blank and empty, faces caught in looks of terror or surprise. It no longer troubled Russia to see the mangled and twisted bodies, but a small part of him secretly wished that it did. Maybe then he wouldn't feel quite so…alone? Scared? He didn't know anymore.

God help him.

He didn't know, and yet he felt he should have been able to know.

His head hurt. His heart throbbed unevenly as it tried to push itself from between his ribs.

X~X~X

Russia giggled, blood escaping from between his pale lips, as he brought his weapon down on a German soldier's head. He laughed because he knew that with every death, the other nation would feel the same kind of pain he did.

Another harsh noise escaped his burning throat, and blood soaked into his coat and splattered across his cheek.

He didn't stop to wonder _whose _blood it might be.

X~X~X

Time dragged slowly by and still the war raged.

Russia didn't know how long this battle had lasted- hours, weeks, months, years? Who truly knew? One battle bled into the next, bled into the next, bled into the next, bled, bled, bled!

Oh God, so much blood.

It coated the Nation, and he didn't know whose blood it was anymore. His children's, or his sisters' babies, or the enemy's sons', or perhaps even his own.

He didn't know; he didn't care.

All it was were more sacrifices. Blood was necessary to keep him alive, to keep his beloved children thriving. He had been born of the blood; raised from the carnage. It had surrounded him since the first day he had opened his eyes to see the Russ Vikings slaughtering any man, woman, or child that got in their way. It had nurtured him throughout his long, long childhood as the City-states that made up his country warred with one another, massacring their fellows. It had taught him in his adolescence through the deceit and murders of the Tsars and the nobility.

And now, it covered him like the flames of a funeral pyre, never letting him escape from its' all consuming existence.

That was normal, though. That was as close to "safe" as he could imagine. He only wished that the burning could comfort his constantly-cold body, and grant him the warmth he had never known but always strived for.

X~X~X

Russia had, of course, heard the whispers from the others. They said that his mind had been shattered long ago. Perhaps they were correct, but how was it possible that _theirs _had_ not? _How could they still be sane when they felt the suffering that their children experienced? _ALL _their children.

A Nation needs not eat, and yet his stomach felt as though it were attempting to consume itself, and it twisted and gurgled as his children starved to death on the battlefields and in their own beds.

A Nation needs not sleep, and yet he stumbled with weariness and his eyesight blurred as his sons and daughters struggle to stay awake, to keep up their hopeless vigilance. He felt the exhaustion, deep within his very bones, but he could do nothing for it.

His iron-clad heart ached as the soldiers longed for their spouses, and the young cried over the dead bodies of their parents. His head was filled with the terrible, pain filled screams and the terror filled cries, but it was also throbbing with the quiet prayers and the whispered goodbyes of those about to die and those left behind.

God help them all.

X~X~X

Russia's large frame was covered in grime and sweat, and his long coat (which might have been white a long, long time ago) was covered in mud and blood. He had replaced his threadbare, carnage coated gloves, but he couldn't seem to keep the blood off of his hands. His weapon was rusted over now, but he continued to use it. Even his hair, which used to be silvery blonde, was more red and black than anything. Perhaps the only clean part on his entire body was the tear tracks that cut through the filth on his cheeks like small knifes. The water fell from his eyes, wiping his cheeks clean, and he wouldn't wipe it away or smear it, because he never knew that they were there.

X~X~X

He saw Germany that day, and he was startled when he realized that the other Nation was even worse off than he himself.

Germany's blonde hair, usually slicked back, was mussed and dirty. A usually clean pressed uniform was ripped and wrinkled, stained with the blood of childish battles.

The other Nation's glassy blue eyes met with Russia's crazed violet ones.

And Russia felt pity for the other.

Germany's haunted, sunken eyes reflected the pain of the children in the Concentration Camps. After all, despite what Germany's 'Crazy Boss' claimed, the Jews were still Germans, and the country could still feel their pain.

Russia knew that pain.

He began the long walk, stepping over the bodies of the dead babies that littered the blood soaked earth. Germany came forth, too, taking even more care than the larger Nation to avoid trampling the dead. Russia could see the pain in his every step, and he knew that the younger Nation was so, _so _close to giving up.

A small smile slipped over Russia's lips, never quite reaching he eyes. Then again, it never did anymore.

They met one another in the battlefield. It was quiet now- only the freezing winds and the crying murders of crows and funerals of ravens as they fell upon the rotting corpses of corpses. Germany examined the carnage, eyes as blue and sharp and cold as sharpened ice. Then they turned back to look up at Russia. Germany let out a long sigh, eyes closing to hide tears. Russia waited patiently, eyes amused.

"You are here to surrender, da?"

Eyes still closed, Germany slowly nodded. Russia giggled and clapped him on the back, making the smaller Nation wince in pain.

Russia turned and walked away, leaving the younger Nation weeping silently over their children's bodies.

God help them both, so perhaps their anguish could one day end.


End file.
